Modin felt ill at ease. Not only was he freezing, but he had a sense of foreboding. His gut was telling him to watch out as he took his keys out of his pocket, unlocked his car, and got in.
He sat still for a moment. The streets lay quiet and muffled as the autumn rain continued to pour down, creating a faint dark glare on the asphalt. The walls of the apartment blocks rose ghostly on both sides of the narrow street. Beyond the dark windows, the citizens of Stockholm were fast asleep, building up energy for yet another day of work. A cat shot across the street and jumped under a car. It shook the raindrops from its fur.
Modin was leaning back in his seat, studying the opposite side of the street. It was as deserted as a warm bottle of beer. Cars were parked along the other side. A text message startled him. He sat up, stretched his hand toward his inner pocket, and opened the message.
If you want to hear the whole truth, come to Beckholmen now, to Gustaf V. Your friend, Cats Falk.
His watch showed three-fifteen; the morning was glacial and he was freezing, his hands shaking. What the hell was going on? Modin read the message again. Cats Falk? The journalist? Isn’t she dead? What’s this all about, he wondered, frowning. He looked at the caller ID; the number began with zero-seven-three, which indicated that it was prepaid. Fuck! Modin considered calling Bergman to tell him, perhaps even ask him to come along, but he let the thought pass. Bergman had enough problems of his own.
Beckholmen was an islet at the southern tip of the island called Djurgården, the former traditional royal hunting grounds, which now were home to museums, the Skansen Zoo, and an amusement park. The island was a stone’s throw away from the Royal Palace and the center of Stockholm.
Modin leaned forward to get a better look. The street remained deserted. But the text was evidence that someone was watching him. Unless there were ghosts on his cell. He locked the car doors, sat motionless, and watched the patterns of rainwater on the asphalt. No one was around.
Cats Falk, an investigative journalist, had vanished without a trace in the autumn of 1984. She had been working on tips about illegal technology and arms sales to the German Democratic Republic, GDR for short. One evening, Cats failed to come home. Friends alerted the police, but despite great efforts, they couldn’t locate her. Not even a reward for more information brought results. Six months after her disappearance, navy divers found her car at a depth of 16 feet; she was dead, had drowned near the harbor at Norra Hammarby, not all that far from the Stockholm soccer field. People suspected murder, but the case was eventually written off as an accident due to a lack of evidence.
Modin shivered. He longed for something warm to drink in the safety of his own home, tilted back in a recliner, or in bed with his cat. Death by drowning wasn’t something he wanted to think about.
He put his cell on the passenger seat, leaned over the steering wheel, and switched on the ignition with his right hand. He could not resist the temptation to meet Cats Falk, or rather, the person who had sent the text and signed her name. Home would have to wait.
The engine of his Chevy pickup started with a hiss. He put on the wipers at maximum speed, yet visibility was still poor. The darkness covered everything. Mists of water molecules were chasing around the street lights. The journey took him in an easterly direction, downhill. Then he turned right into Tavastgatan, left into Timmermansgatan. When he got to Hornsgatan, he turned left again, drove past the docks at Slussen and along the Skeppsbron Bridge past the Royal Palace.
Modin glanced to his right. Through the rain across the water, he could see the youth hostel housed in the ancient sailing vessel, the af Chapman moored at Skeppsholmen. Beckholmen, Gustaf V, he thought. Beckholmen was located at the southern tip of Djurgården, where three dry docks had been blasted into the face of the rock. The last of these, named Gustaf V, had been built in the 1920s and was the largest, some 220 yards end to end. He drove along the rather chic Strandvägen Boulevard and past the Nybroviken inlet. The directors of Skandia Insurance used to live in this area, in some of the largest, most luxuriously renovated apartments paid for by policyholders.
In the Province of Sweden, people tended to do whatever they wanted, he thought as he crossed the bridge onto Djurgården island, rushed past the pompous façade of the Nordic Museum and followed a bread delivery van along the drenched road. The wipers continued to clack rhythmically. He began to wonder whether it was wise to come here on his own. At this time of night, the area would be deserted. Of course, that was the whole point. He was curious and the person who had sent the text message knew this.
It was three-thirty in the morning. The Gustaf V dock lay farthest away as one turned right onto the bridge to Beckholmen after passing the large entrance to Skansen Zoo. Modin drove across the bridge, then followed the ridge westwards. Nobody seemed to follow him as he drove into the parking lot. The Gustaf V dock was a large hole in the ground. He passed it on his right and stopped at the furthest pier. It had started to rain heavily again, and the raindrops were forcefully hitting the trunk of the car. He turned off the ignition, and the engine fell silent with a sigh.
Modin scanned the area carefully, hesitant to leave the car. This could be a trap.
• • •
The man had a broad back, a strong neck, and was wearing a navy blue military ski mask. It was pulled down over his face, but there were holes for the eyes, nose, and mouth. He was breathing slowly and deeply as he was slouching rather comfortably on the roof of the wharf building at Beckholmen, just opposite Gustaf V. He was holding the edge of the chimney lightly with his gloved left hand and did not seem bothered by the water pouring onto his face.
“Here he comes,” sounded the communication radio in his left breast pocket.
Two searchlights were swinging around the ridge and lit him up. He took the safety off his gun, a Heckler & Koch G3 automatic, and by reflex checked his right hand trouser pocket for the extra magazine. He pointed at his companion with his index and middle finger, indicating the car. His companion, like he himself a man around fifty, was ten yards to his right, near the next chimney. He, too, was dressed in camouflage khaki pants and a black half-length windbreaker. He gave the okay signal by gently raising the barrel of his automatic. The driving rain did not seem to affect the men on the roof. They were squatting motionlessly and knew that they were invisible from the road.
Two other men were hidden on the far side of the road, a little further down the stairs to the dry dock.
• • •
Modin pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and finally left the car. For a while, he stood with his shoulders hunched up, surveying the whole area; he tried to listen but only heard the pattering of the rain hitting the rocks. Through the mist, he could see the Finland ferry on the other side of the water, moored at Stadsgården on the suburban island of Södermalm, from where he had come. Modin walked up to a notice that said No trespassing! Guardians are responsible for their children. The rain trickled down the back of his neck and inside his collar. He ignored it. He adopted an attitude of complete nonchalance, in case he was being observed.
He went up to the dock and looked inside. It was pitch-black—a construction some 50 feet below sea level, carved out of the rock with steps up to ground level. He felt lonely and abandoned. This really isn’t such a good idea, he thought. What the hell am I doing here? Fuck, this is a mistake!
He began to stride back to his car.
From the corner of his eye, Modin saw two men leap from the roof of the wharf building. They landed in the wet gravel just a few feet away from him, straightening up immediately.
“Stop!” one of them called out. His automatic was aimed at Modin’s head.
Staring down the barrel of the powerful gun, Modin froze on the spot. He raised his arms over his head.
“Who the hell are you?” he asked with confidence, but what he felt was fear. He was surrounded by four men that looked like paramilitaries.
“Hands on your head! And I mean now, motherfucker!”
Modin put his hands on his head. He had time to think that this was like an exercise during commando training. His eyes narrowed; he knew he was neck deep in shit.
One of the men went up to Modin and hit him forcefully on the back of the head with the butt of his rifle.
• • •
Modin slumped to the ground, unconscious. The man crouched down and searched Modin’s pockets. He took his wallet, removed his cell, and put these objects in one of his own back pockets. He fingered Modin’s watch but let it be.
Meanwhile, the other men had approached. They carried the unconscious Modin to his Chevy and put him in the driver’s seat. Modin lay there, slumped against the steering wheel with his right cheek. One of the men started the engine and shut the door. Then he went alongside the car and steered it, while the others pushed. The car rolled gently toward the edge of the pier. The windshield wipers continued to swish as the car rolled forward.
The men looked at one another and all gave a short nod. Two of them, on either side of the car, turned outwards, crouched down, and surveyed the scene. One man opened the door and put the gear in drive-mode and closed the door again. The vehicle crept slowly toward the edge.
It was a drop of some ten feet, and the car hit the surface of the water with a splash. It floated for a few seconds; the headlights continued to blaze. Then, suddenly, the car sank with a discreet gurgle and disappeared under the surface. Gradually, the headlights faded in the whirling waters, while the men looked on. Behind them, the needle-like tower of the Gröna Lund amusement park could be seen, now closed down for the season. A brief moment of silence later, one of them, the group leader, pointed with his full arm and shouted: “Return to base.”
The others obeyed.
• • •
Modin’s Chevy pickup sank through the black water—six feet, twelve, thirty—until it landed in the soft sediment.
Modin came to. Cold water was flowing around him and rising quickly; it was up to his testicles already.
Where am I? Below the pier, I suppose. How deep is it? Ten, fifty feet? His thoughts raced. He knew he was underwater, and the car was right side up because he was sitting straight. He felt the wound to the back of his head with his right hand. It did not hurt, but it was warm and damp. He felt no pain anywhere. He was going to survive. That, at least, was his aim. So much more to do. His breathing increased. His eyes became slits and he shut his mouth tight, breathing through his nose.
Got to wait till the car fills all the way up with water, he thought. He tried to keep his cool but could not prevent his right leg from trembling uncontrollably and spasmodically. He could no longer see his hand in front of his face. It was dark, hellishly dark. The problem was finding the right direction. Am I going to die here? He cast aside the recurring thought.
Instead, he tried to think about breathing and swimming to the surface. That was not going to be easy. He had to stay calm; otherwise it was lights out for him. He breathed a little more deeply.
The water was now up to his nipples. He zipped up the jacket to the top and waited. The water reached his chin. He stretched it out. It was getting really cold. Water seeped down his collar and onto his chest. He took one last breath and experienced a sudden flashback.
Prime Minister Olof Palme was making a speech at the political debate congress in Almedalen on the island of Gotland. Palme spoke slowly, over-articulating his words. His speech inspired confidence back then, thought Modin as the water came up to his nose, his eyes, and his ears until his head grew silent.
A few more seconds now.
Modin suddenly became rational as the water closed in over his head. He had heard that many people drowned in cars because they didn’t wait long enough before trying to get out, using up the energy better spent swimming. He managed to keep calm. The fear of death was gone. Is this how Cats Falk died? He felt he had all the time in the world once the rushing of the water had ceased. He thought he heard the sound of tin plate buckling. He saw nothing, but felt with his hand and found the window handle. He managed to open the side window then squeezed through. His head touched something soft and horrible. He got the taste of mud in his mouth. He was swimming in the filth at the bottom. Ugh!
Keep as cool as a cucumber, my boy, he thought. Do what you must: survive. He let the tips of his toes get a firm hold on the bottom part of the rolled down window. He turned around without losing his grip on the car. The air in his lungs could not help him rise to the surface. The water pressure was too great. He wriggled across the roof of the car and hunkered down.
Life or death now, rise up slowly, he was thinking.
Modin was pretty sure that the car was standing on its wheels in the mud. That’s what it had felt like when there was still air in the car.
He raised himself slowly to his full height and stopped for a second. He stretched, took aim and pushed downwards as hard as he could. Arms above his head and holding his thumbs tightly. He glided upwards like a torpedo.
• • •
A black Dodge van was leaving the wharf at Beckholmen. The car was rolling smoothly forward and all that could be heard was the muffled sound of the engine. The car had remained parked for a few moments but the surface of the water was still. Nothing had come up from the seabed.
It was three forty-five in the morning. Time to go. The operation had been a success. The four men took off their ski masks and looked at one another. They each had their rituals when an operation had been pulled off. That was as it should be. One would go on a drinking binge. Another would shrug his shoulders and regard the incident as a necessary measure. Another was busy looking down at the floor. No one said anything.
The car drove at high speed through Djurgården and over the Djurgården Bridge onto the mainland. The driver made sure that they were soon lost in the maze of the city streets. The sound of an ambulance siren could be heard in the faraway district of Östermalm. This did not disturb their calm. Modin was dead. Mission accomplished. All they heard now was the rain.
• • •
Modin shot up through the water. He tried to relax yet stretch out as much as possible. It felt like forever. He could feel his heart in his chest. His eyes were open but he saw nothing, his mouth was open but he tasted nothing. He must have been underwater for two minutes. He did not dare to make any more swimming strokes for fear of losing his direction. That could mean death.
He felt something firm and rough in the dense darkness of the water. The pier! He was still holding his breath. The lack of oxygen was extremely painful. He followed the rough surface of the pier and prayed he was still swimming upwards. Just a little longer. Then new air. He broke the surface with a splutter. Ice cold water ran out of his ears. He still couldn’t see anything. But there was air.
Breathe deeply!
He inhaled and exhaled for a full minute while clinging to an old car tire that was fixed to the pier. His head was spinning, his body hung limply from his arms. His throat was dry. Little by little he began to look around. Behind him, he could see the Finland ferry. He recognized the pier quay at Stadsgården on the opposite side. The water was still up to his chin. There was no risk he would be seen. Warmth flooded his body. A feeling of joy filled him when he saw that there was no one at the pier watching him. All was still.
This is what it feels like when you defy certain death, he thought in a moment of exhilaration. He had experienced the feeling before and recognized it. This is the last time I’m doing something like this! he decided. He climbed up over the tire with the help of a rusty chain. Once he had reached the pier walkway, he collapsed and passed out.